


The Bookshop

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: All the clues led back to the bookshop―a small, privately owned shop under the name of ‘A. Z. Fell & co.’ The book found in the victim’s bag had ‘Fell’ stamped on the inside. The suspect described by the second witness matched nothing but some footage that showed him leaving the shop. It had to be investigated. Sherlock/Good Omens crossover for the Angelock monthly theme in the Sherlock RP Amino Community, done at the last second on the last day. You're welcome.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 197





	The Bookshop

―

_ Today _

_ Friday _

―

The book was very old―well, that was an understatement. The book was  _ ancient _ . It was a first-edition kept in perfect condition by a collector. A string of collectors, more likely, as it had clearly been bought when it was first written several centuries ago and never been mishandled whatsoever until someone had gone and killed its purchaser. 

Sherlock opened the cover. There, on the inside cover, were four neatly printed letters:  _ Fell _ . 

“Wasn’t that the name of the bookshop?” John asked from behind him. He stood and turned to face him.

“It was indeed; you’re getting better at this. Mixed-race female victim. American, but been in Britain for at least six months. Doesn’t stay in London, here visiting a friend. No kids, boyfriend―no, that’s not right. Recently engaged, but the ring's been away for cleaning since yesterday. Religious family, but not in a traditional way. Maybe some kind of cult? Anyway, she hasn’t been involved in that for some time, so it doesn’t matter-”

“Couldn’t the killer have taken the ring?” 

“No, the mark from where it was would be more pronounced, and since the murder she hasn’t been touched. Very neat.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing relevant.”

“What next, then?”

“The bookshop.”

“The bookshop?”

“Obviously.”

“Right. Obviously. Mind explaining for us mere mortals, then, Sherlock?”

He sighed. “The witness said he saw a tall man leave the scene with dark hair wearing lavender clothes. The footage Lestrade checked from the place across from the shop apparently showed someone of that description pausing outside the bookshop to speak to its owner a few days earlier, but neither caught his face. The book has  _ Fell _ stamped in it, and, as you pointed out, that matches up with the shop,  _ ‘A. Z. Fell & co.’  _ So, yes, John, the bookshop.”

“Right. Obvious. Off we go, then.”

―

_ Five days ago _

_ Sunday _

―

Aziraphale had absolutely no idea.

Of course, this was a common occurrence; it was rather rare, in fact, that Aziraphale  _ did _ have an idea, but the thing he was currently having no idea about was what the Archangel Gabriel was doing outside his shop.

After all, he’d expected at least a decade of relaxation before Heaven caught on to his and Crowley’s little trick. Instead, it had only been a few months. Luckily, there were no customers to be bothered with, so he left the shop and found himself face to face with his former boss and trying not to panic.

“Aziraphale.”

“Gabriel… what…”

“Maybe we could have a little  _ chat _ .”

Aziraphale almost caved immediately, but in the moment he remembered the power he held over Heaven: they still thought him powerful enough to survive hellfire.

“I think not.”

Gabriel’s smile dropped. Aziraphale continued. “You see, it’s rather inconvenient. I have a business to run, you know, and I can’t drop everything for a chat with you. Nor do I wish to. Good day, Gabriel.”

He turned to leave, but felt a hand seize his arm.

“Do you know who you’re  _ talking _ to…” Gabriel began to ask, growling, but Aziraphale didn’t let him finish.

“And do  _ you _ know who _ you’re _ talking to? Because, in case you’ve forgotten, you hold no power over me.” He wrenched his arm free again. Gabriel stepped back, looking stunned, and Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off him until he’d turned the corner and left.

He let out a sigh and turned to reenter his shop.

―

_ Four days ago _

_ Monday _

―

The paperwork in Hell was really starting to stack up.

Of course, the paperwork in Hell was always stacking up. It was its own form of torture that Beelzebub had always insisted was invented specifically for zir benefit. But there had to be new rules and regulations put in place after the not-pocalypse. Armageddon’t. After all, ze would not be humiliated in that way again, nor would Hell as a whole. Ze wouldn’t stand for a demon running about doing whatever he wanted, and  _ something _ had to happen. And that something was paperwork. Paperwork that stated what would happen in the case of another demon immune to Holy Water―for it had never happened. Paperwork that showed the plans and protocol for setting everything straight again for a new end-of-the-world date. Not to mention the rebellions popping up; demons didn’t take well to being told to get back to work. It had to be done, but that didn’t mean ze had to like it.

It didn’t help that the pens in Hell were always out of ink. And it was almost midnight.

“Lord Beelzebub?”

Ze didn’t look up. “Yes, Dagon?”

“We have news from… you know, upstairs.”

“What? What izz the news?”

“They won’t tell us, Prince. The Archangel wants a meeting on Earth. Neutral territory.”

Beelzebub snorted. “Of courzz they do. When?”

“As soon as conveniently possible, he said.”

“Who am I meeting?”

“Gabriel.”

“Wanker.”

Dagon smirked. “When should I tell him to expect you?”

“Right now. I need a break from all thizz-” Ze gestured around the piles of damp, molding papers that still needed proofreading, signing, and stamping- “Bullshit.”

Dagon nodded. Beelzebub snapped, and the low dirt ceiling sunk down a bit more, crumbling and breaking in order to envelop zir corporation and bring zir up through the dirt.

―

_ Three days ago _

_ Tuesday _

―

At 12:01 AM, an unimportant gardener witnessed a small, thin figure surrounded by angrily buzzing flies rise from the earth.

At 12:02 AM, an unimportant gardener lost his life.

At 12:07 AM, the Archangel Gabriel was fashionably late.

Beelzebub rounded on him. “Where have you been?”

Gabriel innocently pointed up.

At 12:08 AM, the Archangel Gabriel was punched in the face.

“You are  _ late. _ ”

“My most  _ sincere _ apologies, Prince Beelzebub,” Gabriel began, insincere and unapologetic, “but you gave little notice.”

“Whatever. What did you zzo desperately need to tell me?”

“Only an update on what we’ve been missing about  _ your _ rogue demon-”

“And  _ your _ rogue angel-”

“Which  _ is _ , if you’ll let me  _ finish _ , that they appear to be consorting with a number of humans, who might provide information as to how exactly they did it.”

“You think they truzzted humans? With that?”

“Oh, you don’t know Aziraphale like I do.”

“And you’re telling me becauzze you want me to… persuade them to let uzz in on the zzecret?”

“Oh, no, we can take care of all that. We only wanted you in on the plan to prevent your Crowley from interfering.”

Beelzebub raises zir eyebrow. “Not afraid to get your hands dirty, then, idiot?”

“Not at all.”

…

Another thing that happened on Tuesday, at a more reasonable hour, was that Mrs Hudson went for tea with her old friend Madame Tracy. She had her fortune read. According to Tracy and her Tarot cards, Mrs Hudson would find something she’d lost, meet a new friend, should avoid salads, and would be in grave peril on Friday at precisely 5:37 AM. This was incorrect on every count―except for the bit about the salads. This is also completely irrelevant to the other events of the week, but it is still nice to think about.

―

_ Two days ago _

_ Wednesday _

―

“Sherlock?”

No response.

“Sherlock? Are you there?”

John glanced once more at his friend, who was borrowing his computer and seemed not to hear Lestrade pounding on the door, and, rolling his eyes, walked across the room and opened it.

“I’d sit down. It’ll be a while.”

Lestrade followed John’s gaze to where Sherlock sat immersed in his research and nodded, taking John’s advice. 

It was ten minutes before he looked up.

“Oh. Lestrade. You’re here. John, why didn’t you-”

“I did.”

“Noted. Well, what do you need my help with now that the police are too idiotic to handle?”

He stood, handing Sherlock the file. “There’s a missing woman―Anathema Device, American.”

A pause. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Well, we need you to find her.”

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“That’s not it. You wouldn’t be here if that was it.”

“It’s this. She was last seen at this bookshop, the camera across the street shows that much. But she walks out of the range of that camera and never shows up on the footage from the one right next to it. She disappeared in less than six inches of space.”

“Now it’s interesting. Why do you always save the interesting bits for last?”

“So you’ll do it, then?”

“Oh, I’ll get around to it. We’re in the middle of a very important case right now, aren’t we, John?”

“No, we aren’t.” John turned to Lestrade. “But that means he’s not going to do it.”

“Come on. We need your help here.”

“Oooh, that’s too bad.”

“You’re acting like a petulant child!”

“Goodbye.”

―

_ Yesterday _

_ Thursday _

―

There was a twenty-four hour long pause where nothing of importance happened.

―

_ Today, again _

_ Friday _

―

The bell above the shop door chimed, and Crowley lifted his head sleepily to glance at the two men who had entered. He was lounging under the desk in his snake form, and he hissed quietly as Aziraphale asked politely from his seat on the chair above him, “Can I help you?”

“Yes. You’re the owner of the establishment?” Asked the shorter of the two men, walking forward, as his companion seemed to take in the room.

“I am.” Responded Aziraphale primly, and Crowley slithered out from under the desk and around their first visitor, who didn’t notice, to watch the second one.

“Yes, well… I’m Doctor John Watson, and this is-”

“Oh! Are you really? I read your blog!”

“You did? Really?” He glanced at the second stranger. “See, Sherlock, people  _ do _ read my blog.”

“Yes, yes. Well, that’s a rather large snake, Mr Fell; is it yours?”

Watson, as he’d introduced himself, turned to face him and almost jumped in shock. Aziraphale laughed. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Dr Watson, he’s perfectly safe…” Crowley hissed his objection. “And you must be Sherlock Holmes then? I really am a fan of your work.”

_ Since when does Aziraphale read  _ blogs?

_ Since when does Aziraphale even know how to use a computer? _

“Oh, are you? John, tell him about the body.”

Aziraphale looked shocked. “Body? What body? Wh- Whose body?

“Erm. Sorry to tell you this, Mr Fell, but Anathema Device disappeared earlier this week, and today a body was found about halfway across London―we think it washer; the face was a bit messed up―and our main suspect was seen here, and there was a book from here on the body, so we need to ask a few questions―Sherlock, what’re you doing?”

Sherlock had pulled a book at random from a shelf, flipped through it, and replaced it, and now he repeated the motion. “Remarkable.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “What is?”

“Every one of these books, as is the one we found, is in perfect condition, like new, but some are decades or even centuries old… do you know how unlikely that is… where is your snake going?”

“Oh, probably to the back room.” Wisely, Aziraphale added, “My friend’s back there, you know, he likes him better…” 

…

Sherlock scrutinized the shop owner as soon as the snake left the room and John’s irrational fear stopped distracting him. There was something off about the man. His clothes were old-fashioned―vintage―but spotless, seeming to have sustained no damage over the years, and he was nervous about something, twisting a ring around his finger. The ring was slightly dirty; it had been cleaned regularly until very recently, but now it was forgotten. The design was unremarkable and looked machine-made… An organization? Work? 

In contrast with his nervous fidgeting and glances, the man’s breathing wasn’t fast… In fact, he hadn’t taken a breath the entire time Sherlock had stared at him. He might have investigated that further if not for the arrival of another distraction. 

“What’s all this, then, Angel?”

“They were telling us something, but it’s impossible.”

John cleared his throat. “What is?”

“Well, we saw Anathema and her Fiancé only this morning. So, whatever body the police found, it couldn’t have possibly been her.”

“No, it couldn’t have been.” The new arrival agreed, and Sherlock shifted his gaze to him. He and his friend could not have been more different. This man was taller, thinner, and dressed in fashionable dark clothes. He wore sunglasses―too thick for fashion, vintage. An eye condition, maybe? They were clearly meant to hide something. He had a snake tattoo on one side of his face; it was clearly a symbol of something. 

“Well, she matched every description, so it could have been a mistake on the part of the killer.” John suggested. He turned to the man in sunglasses. “And you are?”

“Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Pleasure… Sherlock,  _ what are you doing? _ ”

Sherlock darted around Fell and Crowley to look into the back room. There were books there, too, and as he checked he noted that they were all first editions like the ones in the shop. A number of odd objects were there, too, such as a sword placed carelessly on a table. However, more important was the distinct  _ lack _ of something.

“Mr Fell, where did your snake get to?” He could practically hear John tense from the other room. 

Fell walked into the room. “Oh,” He began nervously, “He’s probably just… erm… hiding somewhere… erm…” He stuttered. “I’ll lose my own head next.” He offered with a weak smile.

The sword burst into flames.

―

_ Saturday _

_ Tomorrow _

―

It would be discovered on Saturday that Gabriel had indeed, misinterpreting Beelzebub’s message, stopped an ordinary customer instead of Miss Device, and though she will be sorely missed, everyone was better off for it  _ not _ being Anathema. Professional descendants are hard to come by. 

Adam Young would drop by the bookshop on Saturday, and he would be very surprised to find a consulting detective and his partner there, frozen in time. If said men happened to forget all about the incident later and go about their business, well,  _ he _ had nothing to do with it.

On Saturday, as well, paperwork would begin to stack up in Heaven, and Archangel Gabriel would find himself having to explain why he was discorporated in a police chase after someone―Adam had a perfectly good alibi, thank you very much―dropped in an anonymous tip as to who was responsible for the look-alike’s murder.

Aziraphale, on Saturday, could be found whistling a tune in his shop as he replaced a book on its shelf after cleaning a  _ nasty _ bloodstain off the back cover with a small miracle. A large serpent was curled on his desk, shaking his head at his Angel’s ancient computer and reading a blog that turned out to be far more interesting than he expected.

_ All things considered _ , Aziraphale would think,  _ it was a nice week. _ He would only be disappointed that the great Sherlock Holmes wasn’t wearing his hat. That was the real tragedy.


End file.
